Mask of Swords (10 page)

Adalar fell silent as he realized the others were staring at him. 

“Forgive me,” said Adalar. “I tend to ramble. There is much on my mind as of late.”

“I can imagine,” said Mazael. “Come! Get your men settled, and we’ll walk through the merchants’ tents, get drunk, and talk of days past and days yet to come.” 

“Well,” said Adalar, “it would be discourteous to refuse, would it not, Sir Wesson?” He would really rather not, but there was no reason to be rude.

“I believe you are correct, Lord Adalar,” said Wesson. He, at least, seemed to look forward to the drinking. 

They paused at the base of the castle’s hill, and Adalar directed his riders to head to the barbican, escorting the slow-moving wagons. More caravans rolled towards the town and the tournament field. Adalar watched them, surprised at the changes that had come over Cravenlock Town. He had grown up at Greatheart Keep, but had often accompanied his father to Castle Cravenlock and Cravenlock Town. The lands around Castle Cravenlock had seemed almost half-desolate beneath Mitor Cravenlock’s misrule, but now they were thriving. That stirred something…if not quite hope, then not despair, within Adalar. Perhaps they could indeed rebuild, could start new lives in the lands left desolate by the runedead. 

Mazael discussed the Skuldari and the valgasts with Timothy and Arnulf, while Adalar listened with half an ear. He expected Romaria to join the discussion. Yet she was staring at one of the approaching caravans, her blue eyes narrowed, her fingers tapping against the staff of her Elderborn bow. The caravan looked unremarkable, six wagons flanked by guards in leather armor. A group of five Tervingi spearthains in mail followed them. 

“Is anything amiss, my lady?” said Adalar in a low voice. 

“Yes,” said Romaria. “No. Maybe. I’m not sure.” 

“I…see,” said Adalar. 

“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “There’s something wrong with those Tervingi spearthains.”

In truth, the Tervingi all looked the same to Adalar, fierce and bearded and barbaric. Any other lord would have destroyed them or been conquered by them, but Mazael had somehow tamed them. Or at least made the barbarians heed him. 

“They’ve got spears and crossbows,” said Adalar. “I don’t…”

“Crossbows?” said Romaria, and then her eyes widened. “Mazael!”

Mazael whirled, his hand falling to his sword hilt, and the Tervingi spearthains turned. 

As one, they lifted their crossbows. 

“Down!” roared Mazael, and he shoved Romaria to the ground as the Tervingi released their quarrels. 

A volley of quarrels shot towards them. One blurred past Adalar’s face. One struck Mazael in the chest and shattered against his golden armor, and he staggered with a grunt. Timothy began casting a spell, pale light flashing around his fingers, and Adalar drew his greatsword and charged. 

“Treachery!” thundered Arnulf, gripping his shoulder. Had one of the bolts hit him? “To arms, all loyal men! To arms!” 

Shouts rose from the camps near the pavilion, and by then Adalar had reached the nearest Tervingi. The spearthain was reloading his crossbow, but cast aside the weapon and lunged with his spear as Adalar attacked. The long spear gave the thain greater reach, but Adalar had the right weapon to counter. He slapped aside the spear point with his greatsword and thrust, the point opening a slash across the Tervingi thain’s right hip. The warrior grunted and lost his balance, and Adalar whipped his heavy sword around in a two-handed swing. He didn’t get quite all the way through the spearthain’s neck, but the amount of blood that burst from the wound ensured the spearthain was out of the fight. 

A second spearthain charged at Adalar, and he got his sword up to block. Something blurred past Adalar and slammed into the spearthain’s neck, and the Tervingi fell to his knees, clutching at the arrow jutting from his throat. Adalar risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Romaria standing with her bow strung, her hand dipping to the quiver at her belt. 

Adalar turned to find another foe, but by then the fight was over.

Mazael stood over three dead Tervingi, a curved sword of dark metal in his right. As Adalar looked closer he realized that the sword was bone of some kind, symbols of golden fire glimmering upon the blade. The Lord of Castle Cravenlock looked around, shook the drops of blood from his peculiar sword, and grimaced. 

“What the devil was that about?” said Wesson. He had gotten his mace out, but Mazael, Romaria, and Adalar had killed all the Tervingi. The entire fight had lasted maybe twenty seconds. 

“Not all the Tervingi are pleased I am their hrould,” said Mazael. “Likely these fellows sought to express their disagreement forcefully.”

Romaria still stared at the dead men, her frown deepening. Adalar remembered the runedead and tightened his grasp on his sword’s hilt, wondering if the dead spearthains would rise again to kill. 

The corpses remained motionless. 

“I know these men,” said Arnulf, stepping to Mazael’s side. There was blood on his shoulder. One of the quarrels had clipped him. “They’re Earnachar’s thains.”

“Earnachar,” said Mazael, his eyes darkening. “These were Earnachar’s sworn men?” 

“Earnachar?” said Adalar. He remembered the name from the battles of the Northwater and Knightcastle. “Is that significant?”

“It might be,” said Arnulf. “When we crossed from the middle lands, we had two hroulds – Athanaric and Ragnachar. After Lord Richard defeated us, Ragnachar wanted to continue the fight, while Athanaric pursued peace. Athanaric’s counsel prevailed, so Ragnachar murdered him and continued the war. After Mazael slew Ragnachar outside the gates of Swordgrim, the Tervingi swore loyalty to him as the new hrould.” He grimaced. “It was the path of wisdom, but not everyone agreed with it. Earnachar was one of Ragnachar’s strongest followers, and he argued that we should continue the war.” 

Mazael shook his head. “Earnachar is a troublemaker, and if you give him an inch he’ll take a mile, but he’s always done as I commanded.” He shrugged. “These could have been renegades. You all saw them attack us, so there’s not even a need for a trial or a wergild.”

“Timothy,” said Romaria, “can you cast the spell to sense magic over them?”

“Of course, my lady,” said Timothy, and he produced a chunk of smoky crystal wrapped in copper wire from a pocket of his coat.

“You think they were enspelled through some witchery?” said Arnulf, giving Timothy a sidelong glance. The Tervingi did not like wizards, Adalar recalled, though after seeing what Lucan Mandragon had wrought, he could hardly blame the barbarians. 

“There’s something…” said Romaria.

“The Sight?” said Mazael.

She nodded. 

Timothy gestured, light flashing around his crystal, and his eyes widened. 

“My lord,” he said. “Lady Romaria was right. There is dark magic upon each of these men, though I cannot pinpoint the source…”

“Upon?” said Romaria. “Or within?”

Timothy gave a sharp nod. “Yes, that’s exactly right. It’s inside of them somehow.”

“Mazael,” said Romaria. “I think…I think that you should probably cut one of them open and look at the heart.” 

He blinked at his wife. “The heart? Truly?” 

“It is ill to desecrate the dead,” said Arnulf. “Even traitors. The gods frown most sternly upon it.”

“I think these men desecrated themselves in life,” said Romaria. “Mazael, there’s something wrong with them. I’m not sure what, but I can see it with the Sight.”

Mazael shrugged. “Very well. Arnulf, Lord Adalar. Have your men form a shield wall around us. It wouldn’t do to let people see the liege lord of the Grim Marches mutilating corpses in public. Also, Sir Wesson, might I borrow your mace? This will go easier if I can break some ribs first.”

Wesson swallowed and offered Mazael his mace. Mazael shrugged out his cloak, handed it over to a nervous-looking boy who was likely his squire, and went to work. Adalar made himself watch as Mazael removed the mail shirt of a dead Tervingi, broke the fallen spearthain’s ribs, and start sawing with a dagger.

“You do that,” Adalar heard himself say, “so calmly.”

Mazael shrugged, his golden armor splashed with blood. “Not much different than a battle. Slower, though. I’ve seen and made a lot of dead men in my time. There’s nothing left to shock me any…what the hell?”

He shot to his feet, the bloody dagger in his hand. 

Something was moving in the bloody ruin of the dead Tervingi’s chest. 

At first Adalar thought that the dead man was still alive, that his heart was still beating and his lungs were pumping. Then he saw the black bulge rising from the ragged wound Mazael had carved into the dead man’s chest, a black bulge with slender legs and red streaks down its body.

A spider. It was the size of a man’s fist, but otherwise identical to the dead spider in the wagon.

Mazael speared the thing with his dagger. Its legs went into a wild, twitching dance, and then went still.

“A spider,” breathed Romaria. “That’s what I saw. There’s a spider inside each of those men.” 

“The spider is charged with dark magic,” said Timothy, waving his crystal again. 

Mazael looked at Romaria. “When you visited Skuldar, did the Skuldari have spiders like this?”

“No,” said Romaria. Mazael drew his curved sword and walked from Tervingi to Tervingi, impaling the corpses through the chest. “They had the larger spiders and used them as war beasts. But these smaller ones…I’ve never seen or heard anything like this before.” He ripped his sword from the last of the dead spearthains. “I think you got them all.”

“Arnulf,” said Mazael. “Did you see anything like this in the middle lands or in the old Tervingi homeland?”

“Nothing,” said Arnulf. “The soliphages in the eastern forests, aye, but I have no idea what these things are.”

“Then that means,” said Mazael, turning in a circle, “these dead spearthains acquired their spiders, whatever they are, in the Grim Marches.” He wiped the blood from his sword and returned the blade to its scabbard. “I wish Riothamus were here.” 

“I might be able to help,” said Timothy, pointing at one of the dead men. “I’ve seen him before.”

Mazael frowned. “With Earnachar?” 

“No, within the last few days,” said Timothy. “I was in town purchasing some ink. I saw him coming out of the Iron River.”

“The Iron River?” said Adalar. He did not recall a river flowing through Cravenlock Town. 

“A tavern,” said Mazael. “Just opened a few years ago. Caters to the Tervingi, mostly.”

“Though the landlady does make excellent fried mushrooms,” said Timothy. 

Mazael turned to Romaria. “If your Sight finds another man with a spider in his chest, you’ll recognize him?”

“Aye,” said Romaria. “I know what it is now.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “We’re going to the Iron River to have a look around.” 

Arnulf frowned. “Nearly every man of the Tervingi nation knows you by sight now, hrould.”

“I know,” said Mazael, “which is why we’re going to do it quietly. Adalar. Fewer people in the Grim Marches know you or Wesson by sight. Care to join us?”

Adalar hesitated. He was tired of fighting, tired of seeing corpses. Yet his father had never failed in his responsibilities, and neither would Adalar.

“Of course,” said Adalar.

Chapter 6: The Iron River

A few hours later Mazael walked arm in arm with Romaria through the streets of Cravenlock Town. 

His armor of golden dragon scales was too recognizable, so he had discarded it in favor of plain chain mail, a ragged jerkin, and a worn brown cloak. Talon was recognizable as well, though since it had the power to harm creatures of dark magic, Mazael did not want to leave it behind. So he wrapped the sword in a cloth and slung it over his shoulder, a normal longsword and dagger riding at his belt. Romaria walked next to him, wearing a dress of peasant brown and sturdy boots. She had rearranged her hair just enough to cover the points of her ears, her black hair bound beneath a bright blue kerchief. She carried no weapons other than a dagger at her belt, since her bow would be useless in the cramped space of a tavern. 

That hardly mattered. Even without a bow, she was extremely dangerous.

Adalar and Wesson walked in front, laughing and joking. Or at least Wesson was attempting to joke. Adalar grunted from time to time, but his grim expression rarely wavered. The fighting in Mastaria and Knightcastle must have worn heavily upon him. Mazael had seen it before among those who had fought against the runedead. Mazael was Demonsouled, and never stopped craving combat, the dark rage of his blood simmering beneath his thoughts, held in place only by years of practice. Other men, though, men who had not been cursed with the blood of a dead demon god, wearied of fighting, the violence wearing away at them like windblown sand against a stone. Time and distance were the only things that turned such wounds into scars. 

Adalar, though…Adalar was Lord of Castle Dominus, and most of Mastaria had been destroyed by the Great Rising and Caraster’s rebellion. He was lord over a land of shocked survivors and crumbling ruins. Adalar had seen some of the worst fighting of the Runedead War, and Mazael suspected that it still haunted him. 

He was not sure how to help Adalar, but if he could, he would. 

In the meantime, they had work to do. The Skuldari, the valgasts, and now these spider-infested Tervingi thains pointed at a plot, and Mazael had not fought off the San-keth, the Dominiars, the Justiciars, the Malrags, and the runedead  to allow the Skuldari and the valgasts and their mysterious goddess to bring ruin to the Grim Marches. 

“There it is, my lord,” said Timothy. He had traded his black wizard’s coat for a long, worn coat of wool favored by sheepherders. Evidently the wizards of the Brotherhood preferred long coats. “The Iron River.”

They were on a side street fronted with shops, the sounds of hammering and cooking and buying and selling filling the air. The Iron River was a tall inn of four stories, built of stone and timber and roofed in clay tiles. A steady stream of men came and went through the front door. Most were Tervingi, but Mazael saw Marcher-born men as well.